


Renegade's Legacy: What Happens in Vegas

by reddawnrumble



Series: Renegade's Legacy 'Verse [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddawnrumble/pseuds/reddawnrumble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Sam MIA for weeks in Memphis, Dean takes time off in Las Vegas for a distraction - and stumbles into a case purely by accident. With the help of Castiel, playing hooky from the stress of angel duties and attempting to cultivate his own sense of humor, Dean tries to unravel the mystery behind a haunted casino/hotel. Drunken binges, a missing Impala, too much coffee, and distractions of angelic proportions ensue regarding cheeseburgers and bellboys...and Dean learns a startling truth about his soul's connection to Sam's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_February 15 th, 2012_

_Hughes Residence, Searcy, Arkansas_

Dean’s head hit the wall before the rest of his body did, popping stars like shiny bubblewrap behind his eyes.

The rest of him came crashing down after that: shoulders, spine, tailbone, legs, shooting synapses of one-by-one pain up into the back of his skull. The rock-salt gun yanked back, popping his wrist and sending the weapon skidding in circles across the floor. And it kept spinning—then it picked up and aimed straight for him.

Dean heaved himself up, shooting pains racing through his limbs. “You think that’s gonna do any good, ugly? Then you go ahead and pull the trigger!”

A burst of gunfire echoed through the room, launching Dean back against the wall, his head punching a hole in the plaster. For one, two, three seconds he felt his heart stop after the impact, his lungs emptying.

Then he started sucking in air, gasping, rolling up onto one elbow. Felt like he could stay laying down for a lot longer than that, but with the shotgun racking for another go, he didn’t have a choice other than _move_ , _move_ , freaking _move_! The next round discharged in the wall next to his head as Dean piled down the hallway with the last Purity Bag in hand, heading for the north corner of the house.

A corded phone ripped out of the wall and went whizzing past his nose; Dean dodged it, sliding across the wood-paneled floor in the kitchen and making a dive for the wall. He put his back against it, slid down and yanked his dad’s journal out of his pocket.

“ _Sacerdos ab Ordinario delegatus, rite confessus, aut saltem corde—_ ” An electric can opener came flying for his head and Dean threw himself down on his shoulder. “Son of a bitch! _Peccata sua_ _detestans, peracto, si commode fieri posit…_ ”

The next flying object caught him across the forehead, some kind of mixing bowl. It opened a gash that dripped hot blood into his eyes. Rocking back upright, Dean pressed his shoulders into the groove of the drawer behind him and continued the Rite.

Cabinet doors started banging open and shut, light flickered and the air conditioning and heat were flashing on and off in gusts and roars. But Dean kept going; didn’t have any other way out of this.

He managed to get through the Rite, crossed himself, and crammed the bag into the corner of the wall.

A bright, sizzling flash erupted through the house, searing the backs of his eyes. Dean threw up an arm to shield his face, and when the jagged patterns of light faded from behind his eyelids, he lowered his arm and looked around.

Everything had gone dead quiet and still, the cabinet doors easing shut on their hinges. The air conditioning unit hummed upstairs.

“Yeah.” Dean hauled himself to his feet, limping a little bit on his sprained ankle. “Yeah, take that, you psycho freak.” He shut the journal and ran a hand down his face, then pulled out his phone and punched in the number.

It picked up after half a ring. “Hello?”

“Larry? It’s Dean.”

“I know. How’d it go?”

Dean looked around at the broken dishes, rutted walls and exposed livewires, wincing. “Super. Listen, you’re gonna want an electrician out here. Thing didn’t wanna go down without a fight.”

“So this, this, uh…”

“Poltergeist.”

“Yeah, the poltergeist, it’s gone?”

“Looks like it.”

Larry whooshed out a breath. “Hey, thanks, Dean. If you hadn’t come to town when you did—”

“Hey, it’s my job.” Dean wasn’t really in the mood for having his back patted. “Listen, this thing comes back, you lemee know, all right?”

“Sure. Sure thing.”

Dean disconnected the call and headed for the door.

Something clattered and shifted at the top of the staircase to his right.

Dean froze, scalp prickling, adrenaline starting to pool in his chest again. He turned his head slowly, catching sight of a flickering shadow at the top of the stairs.

“Great.” He scooped up the shotgun off the floor, racked it one-handed and headed up the stairs as quietly as he could, boots stirring up old flecks of dried paint from every step.

At the top of the landing, Dean squinted against the glare of light falling through the window at the end of the hallway. Wind stirred open the door up ahead on his left, and Dean prowled toward it, shoulders pressed to the wall. He eased his head around to look inside.

There was a long, rumbling sigh of sound coming up out of the floor, like someone had cranked on a furnace. It was getting deeper, rattling in Dean’s feet. And the floor looked like it was shifting—just one spot of it. Flicking in and out of focus in a widening circle, right smack in the middle.

Everything went quiet for a second.

Then roared back into life as the floor caved in, a howling, sucking wind careening through the room, yanking at Dean’s jacket. He pulled his head back around the corner, fear thudding into his throat, then looked again.

Someone was standing on the edge of that pit in the floor, arms loose at his sides. His dark hair whipped around his face in the hurricane-force winds.

“Hey!” Dean barked.

The guy looked over his shoulder, big, soulful eyes glassy, terrified.

“Dean.”

Dean lowered the shotgun, gripped with uncertainty. “Sam?” He stepped forward. “Dude, what’s goin’ on? I thought you were in Memphis.”

“I’m scared, but…” Sam turned a reluctant stare on the pit. “I have to do this, Dean.”

The floor was getting sucked down into that hole, one inch at a time. Dean looked at it, too, hearing things, sounds he never wanted to remember: screams, like souls dying on the rack. The laughter of demons watching them suffer. The endless yakking shrieks of thunder in tune with the lightning.

“Sam, this place is gonna go—c’mon!”

“Sorry, Dean…”

“Sam!”

“I can’t.”

“No—no! _Sam_!”

Sam spread his arms out wide and stepped back.

Dean jerked awake, lying flat on his back, the gonging whistle of a train blaring into his dreams, dragging him back to the present. Shirtless, the cold air of the motel room bit into his skin. The only warm spot was on his neck, where the amulet rested in the hollow of his throat. Dean loosened the string it was on, tucked one arm behind his head and closed his eyes.

He wasn’t much for nightmares; in this line of work you dug holes around everything, Buried bodies and dead friends and everything you were feeling. Capped it, corked it, did whatever you had to so you could sleep with a clear head every night, or every other night. Whenever you could grab the time for some shut-eye.

The problem was, the case at Larry Hughes’ place had really happened. Well. Not _exactly_ like in that dream. Dean had never gone upstairs, he’d cleansed the house, banished the Poltergeist and motored out of that town a week ago. He’d been hunting for a new case ever since, letting his sprained ankle heal up and checking his phone fifty times a day.

Six weeks. It’d been six weeks since he’d pulled out of Bobby’s salvage yard, alone in the front seat of the Impala. Six weeks since Balthazar had died in front of them, kicking Castiel into some mission about the weapons of Heaven. Six weeks since Sam had taken off for Memphis, and Dean hadn’t heard word one from his brother.

Sam hadn’t just asked Dean not to follow him; he’d told him flat-out not to call. Told him he didn’t know what was going on, but he needed to clear his head. Which Dean was fine with, Sam was his own man. But six weeks was a pretty long time for radio silence, even from Sam. When their dad had been on a hunt for a few _days_ without getting in touch, Dean had driven all night to pick Sam up and go hunt their dad down. So taking the back burner while Sam did his little Maverick stunt in Memphis was like cramming half his instincts into a cardboard box and throwing them up on a shelf.

So he did cases. A _lot_ of cases. He’d already salted and burned six bodies and taken out a poltergeist in the last three weeks. Before that it had been monsters—just a couple of them, tough cases. Tough enough to wire his head into the game, so he wasn’t worrying too much about Sam.

The last couple days, though—they’d been hell. So hopped up he couldn’t think straight. Worried about everything and everyone, something he’d been hiding from Sam for years. The fact that he didn’t just brush this stuff off and forget about it. More and more it just kinda sat on his chest. Waiting for him to be alone so it could start munching into his mind. And it didn’t help when he’d gotten a weird phone call that dropped as soon as it picked up, and then some stupid voicemail with just a lot of static on the other end. He’d tossed around the idea of changing his number, but too many people needed it. So he just stacked that weirdness on top of every other weird thing, and let it slide.

Dean sat up, shoving his hands back through his hair. It was starting to get long again—annoying. He’d have to cut it pretty soon.  Probably yell at Sam about getting his cut, too. Kid was looking pretty scruffy.

The amulet thumped against Dean’s bare chest; he pulled it out and looked at it, letting it catch the glint of the sunlight through the window. Didn’t feel right, wearing it again. Knowing what it was supposed to do, and how it’d let them all down. But it wasn’t like he could take it off. Because Sam was right—it did mean something other than the Easter Egg Hunt for God.

            “This is crap.” Dean scruffed his hair up again, then swung up onto his feet. He grabbed his shirt off the back of the chair beside the bed, tugged it on, and snatched the keys off the counter by the door on his way out.

            It was a little after daybreak, so he’d only gotten four, maybe five hours of sleep. Most of the night he’d been looking for cases, but all of the obits he’d sifted through looked clean, and there hadn’t been monster sightings nearby any time recently. For the paranormal, it was like an off season. Which was a good and a bad thing. Worse when Sam wasn’t around for Dean to use as an outlet for his boredom. Annoying his brother was a great way to let off steam.

            Dean slid into the Impala, cranked on the radio and pulled out. He knew where he was heading—same keg-and-barrel, hole in the wall he’d been shacking up in every night since he’d motored into town. Thought he’d had a case of a spirit haunting a highway nearby; hadn’t panned out. But man, this place had everything: chicks, good beer, a jukebox with some excellent hits.

            And enough pool and poker to satisfy a man.

 

 

            Five hours later and over a hundred bucks richer, Dean walked out of that bar with a smirk on his face. Wasn’t the healthiest distraction in the world, but, hey, it was something. He counted up his winnings, drove back to the motel, and sat with his head rocked back against the headrest, staring at the roof of the car.

            Ever since Sam had come back from the cage, he’d been worse than stingy with money. Like he thought it would disappear if he loosened up his grip on the wallet for two seconds. So they’d been hoarding like crazy on everything, and man was it a pain in the ass. Low-level poker didn’t scrape in much cash.

            And that was when it hit Dean, like a ton of freaking bricks. A great way to earn money. A distraction from wondering where the hell Sam was. And something to do before another case poked its ugly head out of the water. Not to mention—one of the places Sam had never let him go when they were hunting. Purely on principle.

There were a couple things you just didn’t do in life. Let a cannibal come to a cocktail party. Invite a vampire to a blood drive. Take Dean Winchester to Las Vegas.

Well, screw that. He was bored and he needed money.

He headed back to the motel, packed up the duffle bag, Sam’s laptop, and headed out. He’d restocked his weapons’ cache when they’d stayed at Bobby’s over New Year’s, replenishing the stash they’d lost in a house fire in Palo Alto a couple months ago. So he was pretty much set for anything, working alone or with someone watching his back.

But he’d had his own back for six weeks. So. He was getting back into that habit.

Dean couldn’t honestly count how many times he’d wanted to call Lisa up this week. Like with Sam gone, some part of him just wanted to slither back into that white-picket life for as long as he could. Wasn’t like he’d made a promise this time, or anything. Bobby still had his feelers out, but the enemy was laying low. Not much Dean could do to track that girl and the Rakshasa, at this point. No cases, either. So he could’ve gone back to Lisa for a few weeks, tried to patch things up.

Right. And get himself caught in a tug-of-war whenever Sam decided to get in touch again and wanted to get back on the hunt.

Dean flipped his phone on and dialed while he was driving.

“Y’ello?”

“Bobby, it’s me.” Dean said. “You got any leads?”

“Hold on a second.” Dean heard a thumping scuffle as Bobby covered the receiver with one hand. “Come on you, you piece of junk—!” He came back on the line. “Sorry.”

“What’s goin’ on?” Dean asked.

“Spring cleaning.” Bobby said with a little sarcasm. “Wanna help?”

“Yeah, lemee get my apron on.” Dean rolled his eyes. “You got a case for me, or not, Bobby?”

“Not.” Bobby sounded frustrated. “That sugar-plumb faerie your brother talked to ain’t gonna make this easy on us, Dean. Whatever she’s planning, she’s keeping it underground.”

“All right, what about normal stuff? Y’know, spirits, ghosts? ’Cause I got nothin’.” Dean said.

“Nothin’ sounds like about what I got, too.” Bobby sighed. “You’re just gonna have to wait this one out, Dean.”

“Yeah.” Dean growled out a sigh. “Yeah, speaking of waiting, Bobby. You hear anything from Sam?”

“Not since he got to Memphis.” Bobby replied. “Same thing I told you when you asked me two days ago, Dean. You’d probably be the first person he’ll call, anyway. So sit tight and don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

“I dunno, Bobby. I just got this really bad feeling in my gut about this.” Dean admitted. “Six weeks? Kind of a long time for a case.”

“Dean, we talked about this. We stopped babyin’ the kid when you gave him the green light to jump into that cage. You can’t be stalking every step he takes now that he’s got his soul back. You gotta let him be his own man.”

“Yeah, well, if that Sasquatch-man gets himself ass-deep in trouble, guess who’s gotta bail him out?” Dean shifted lanes smoothly and changed the phone to his other ear. “I keep having these dreams about him, Bobby.”

“Well, that ain’t creepy at all.”

“Would you just hear me out?” Dean snapped. “I think we should call him.”

“Why? You goin’ Neo on us now? Next thing we know you’re gonna start flyin’.” Bobby said. When Dean didn’t answer, he huffed a sigh. “Dean, look. I’m worried to. This ain’t normal, even for Sam. But we made the kid a promise and we’re stickin’ by it. If he needs us, he’ll get in touch.”

“Yeah.” Dean agreed sullenly. “Listen, Bobby, I’m takin’ the weekend off. So, if you need me…just leave a voicemail.”

“Where’re you headed?”

Dean smirked. “Land of Lights and Love.” When silence answered that little statement, Dean rolled his eyes. “ _Vegas_ , Bobby. _Vegas_.”

            “The _hell_ you goin’ there for?”

            For money. For something to take his mind off of his brother. And the lack of cases. And the storm cloud hanging over his head.

            “Uh…no reason. Look, can’t a guy just go have fun?”

            “You really got the _money_ for that kinda cheap thrill, ya idjit?”

            “Aw, you bet.” Dean grinned. “Anyway. Need me, you know where to find me.”

            “Yeah, all right. And Dean?”

            “Uh-huh.”

            “Sam gets a hold of you…you let me know.”

            Dean swallowed, glancing at the empty passenger seat. “You got it.”

            He hung up, popped in a Metallica tape, and hit the road for the ultimate Pleasure City: Las Vegas, Nevada.

 

 

            Okay. Vegas with Sam would’ve been a blast. Mostly because watching little brother squirm a hundred ways with all the half-naked girls running around, trying to pawn off the alcohol forced on him and hustling pool like a pro, the way Dean had taught him—that woulda been hilarious. He probably coulda made a winning at poker, too. Then there’d be the whole fight about which cheap, skanky motel to stay in, how much they’d bet on every table, tops, and why the hell had they even come here in the _first_ place?

            And Dean would get annoyed. Sam would get bitchy. And they’d have a blast doing it, too.

            Being in Vegas alone, sucked.

            Dean had to choose his own seedy roadside motel to hitch up in, booked a room with two beds just by force of habit, flung the duffle on one and then sat on the other  bed, rubbing his face in his hands.

            Six miles outside of Vegas still felt like the opposite side of the States. But gambling after a day and a half stone-cold un-caffeinated driving would be like pawning his money off for free, so he figured hitting the strip right now wasn’t a good idea.

            Dean flopped down on his back, staring at the cracked, ribbed-in ceiling.

            Who knew a solo road-trip for some time off could be this boring? Didn’t feel all that different from any other case. Except with less to do, and more free time to do it.

            Actually.

            Now that Dean thought about it, there was one other person he could bother for company. Not his first choice, but since his first choice was out chasing tail somewhere in Tennessee…

            Dean rocked back up, clapped his hands together and rubbed them slowly. “Dear Castiel, who art probably floating around like a piece’a lint out in the atmosphere,” He paused. “Uh, I could use some help.”

            He cracked one eye open, peeked around the empty room, then opened the other one. He pulled a face, licked his lips and frowned.

            “Thanks for nothin’, friggin angel.” He leaned back toward the headboard.

            Thumped off something solid.

            “Dean?”

            “Holy—!” Dean jumped onto his feet, spinning around.

            Castiel was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at him quizzically.

            “Dude!” Dean snapped. “Stop it with the damn _ninja_ thing!”

            “My apologies.” Castiel got to his feet. “You requested my assistance. What predicament have you landed yourself in now?”

            Dean bristled. “What, a guy can’t have a friend over for a couple beers?”

            “It was nice of you to think of me, but I’ve given up the consumption of alcohol.” Castiel looked around the room, frowning. “Where is Sam?”

            “Out doing geek-boy stuff.” Dean said as flippantly as he could, sitting on the other bed. “Actually, that’s kinda why I called you.”

            “You need my assistance to find him.” Castiel’s eyes traveled over to Dean, and he looked a little concerned.

            Dean hesitated. “No.”

            “No?” Castiel tilted his head. “You mean you aren’t searching for him?”

            “I mean, he’s a grown man. He can go wherever the hell he wants.” Dean replied, shrugging. “It’s not really about Sam.”

            “Then _what_ , Dean?” Castiel demanded, this time with a trace of impatience. “I have important matters that require my attention.” He paused. “Does this have something to do with Raphael?”

            Dean frowned. “No! Why? That asshat on the move?”

            “Not that we can tell. And _that_ is what worries me.” Castiel looked out the front window of the room, then back at Dean. “What did you need from me, Dean?”

            Dean spread his arms wide and shrugged. “I’m bored.”

            Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Bored.”

            “Yeah, Cass, I’m losing my mind over here. No cases, nothin’. So I came to Vegas for a couple days off.” He smirked “Not as fun when you don’t have someone to pick on, believe me.”

            “I do not understand how I can help you. Boredom is not an ailment that I have any remedy for. Though I can try my best.” He reached out to Dean.

            “Whoa!” Dean arched away. “No, no, no! None of that freaky angel mojo crap!”

            “Then, Dean. _Why did you call me_?”

            “I just wanted some company, all right, Cass?” Dean looked away, narrowly, brooding—Sam probably woulda called it pouting. Freaking empath. “Sam’s been gone for six weeks. Gets kinda….”

            “I understand.” Castiel said quietly. “But Dean, you should know that I have responsibilities that overshadow your emotional pitfalls.”

            “Gee, thanks, ray of sunshine.” Dean snapped. Castiel looked away. “Ah, _c’mon_ , Cass. When was the last time you took a vacation from all this ‘war-in-heaven’ crap?”

            “ _War_ is not something you can vacation away from, Dean. It’s a complex machine, and without my assistance to keep the gears oiled—”

            “Dude. Analogies. Seriously?” Dean spread out his hands. “You need some man time. Off the job.” He paused. “You told me and Sam you’d rather be down here with us then up there playin’ Judge Roy Bean. Here’s your chance.”

            “Dean.” Castiel said flatly. His shoulders hunched inside his trenchcoat and he sighed. “For how long do you require my presence?”

            Dean grinned. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” He stretched. “Two days, Cass. That’s all I’m askin’.”

            “I suppose Ciel can manage the garrison for two days.”

            “Damn right she can.” Dean flopped on his back on the bed. “All right. Gimmie four hours and then we’ll hit the strip.”

            Castiel frowned. “I do not understand. You call on me to cure your loneliness, and now you intend to sleep?”

            “You lulled me.” Dean let his eyes settle at half mast, arms crossed. “You wanna keep watch?”

            Dean felt Cass looking at him. “Did you call me because you feel more comfortable when someone is guarding your blindsides, as Sam normally does?”

            Dean cracked out eye open. “Bite me, Cass.”

            The angel almost smiled. “I will gladly keep watch for you, Dean.” He stood up and walked to the window, easing the blinds aside. “As an angel of the Lord, I can assure you, you will have no better guardian.”

            “Good to hear.” Dean tucked his chin to his chest. “But dude…stay away from me while I’m sleeping.”

            “Very well, Dean.”

            Grinning, Dean let himself sleep.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_February 16 th, 2012_

_Desert Inn, Winchester, Nevada_

The first thing Dean smelled when he woke up was pie.

            “Dude.” He picked his head up off of the scratchy motel pillow, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “Pie. Cass? I smell pie.”

            “Yes. You were deeply asleep, so I thought it would be a good gesture of friendship to bring you your favorite food.” Castiel was standing right where he’d been standing the night before: in front of the window. Except now it was light out behind him. “Zachariah was mistaken when he assumed your human consumption of choice to be cheeseburgers. That is more the predisposition of my vessel.”

            Dean sat up, scrubbed his face with his hands. “Gaw.” He groaned, blinking until his eyes adjusted to the bright wash of daylight reflecting off of the buildings around the motel, slicing through the curtains. “Well, you got one thing right.” He held out his hand. “Pie or die, Cass.”

            Castiel dropped the pie box into Dean’s hand. “I apologize if I am an inadequate substitute for your brother. My time in Heaven has, admittedly, made me a little—”

            “Rusty?” Dean concluded, popping the plastic container open and letting the smell of blueberry pie serenade his senses.

            “Still.” Castiel agreed.

            “Don’t worry about it.” Dean picked up a piece of pie and started eating; who needed forks, anyway? “Sam never brings me pie anymore.”

            “Unfortunate.” Castiel rested one hand awkwardly on the back of the chair beside the door. “What is our agenda for the day, Dean?”

            “Agenda?” Dean echoed incredulously. “What, like I _planned_ this whole thing? You don’t gamble with an agenda, Cass. You—go wherever the money’s hot and see what you can rustle up.”

            Castiel frowned. “That is an extremely poor way to steward money.”

            “Fine, I’ll gamble, you can find some feathery chick to hang out with.” Dean said; stopped. Pulled a face. “Oh, God. Actually, don’t. You might end up married to her.”

            Castiel’s eyes widened. “That would be extremely unfortunate.”

            “Yeah. A bunch of little half-angel babies running around. Like we need a repeat on Jordie.” Dean said with his mouth full.

            “Dean.” Castiel glanced out the window. “I feel the need to remind you that my time here is limited. And as much as you seem to be enjoying your pie, there are other matters that require our attention.”

            Dean grinned at him goofily. “Didn’t think you wanted to gamble that bad, Cass.” He set the pie box on the bed and stretched. “What time is it, anyway?”

            “Quarter after eight.”

            “Guess we gotta hit the strip early.” He threw on his jacket and pulled out the keys. “You comin’?”

“As I have no idea where you intend to go—and, I suspect, neither do you,” Castiel opened the door and motioned Dean to go.

“What a gentleman.” Dean rolled his eyes and headed out to the Impala, Castiel right behind him. Dean stopped beside the driver’s door, leaning his elbows on the roof of the car and looking the angel over. “Cass, that whole Inspector Gadget trenchcoat look isn’t gonna cut it in Vegas.”

Castiel looked down, frowning. “My vessel seems presentable, Dean.”

“Dude. No offense, but you look like a hobo.”

“Wouldn’t that be to our benefit in a place like this? Wealthy, intoxicated people tend to have more sympathy for the less fortunate.”

 Dean blinked, tried to figure out a one-up for that one, and couldn’t. He pulled the door open and slid into the front seat. “When did you get so good at the whole deception thing, huh? First time I met you, you wouldn’t take a crap without making sure Uriel was okay with it.”

“You and your brother are not the only ones who have grown through experience, Dean.” Castiel replied, climbing in shotgun. “And it was not my intent to deceive anyone. Only to use human nature to our benefit.”

Dean held up a finger, turning toward Castiel with a smile. “That’s called, _manipulation_ , Cass.”

Castiel’s lips twitched. “We were leaving, Dean?”

Maybe this weekend wasn’t going to blow so bad, after all.

 

 

Standing the middle of the street, Dean scruffed a hand through his hair and looked at Castiel, smirking. “We could always Rat Pack the place.”

“I do not understand that reference.” Castiel reminded him for probably the tenth time since they’d gotten out on the strip. He craned his neck, looking up at the Eiffel Tower replica across the street. “Amazing, that human hands could build such a wonder, when they are also capable of so much destruction.”

“Yeah, we’re pretty awesome.” Dean replied. “So, where you wanna head first?”

Castiel blinked at him. “This is your vacation, Dean. The choice is yours. I’m merely along for emotional support.”

“Yeah, you make it sound like I’m goin’ to grief counseling.” Dean’s eyes swept the strip, half-dazzled by the sunlight ricocheting off the buildings. Damn. This place was about a hundred times cooler and a hundred times more confusing than he’d imagined. And he’d been imagining it for a long time. “Let’s go earn some money, huh?”

And that was what Dean did; with Castiel trailing behind him like some kind of puppy with abandonment issues. They casino hopped—Monte Carlo, Paris Hotel, Bellagio, all the places Dean had heard about in movies or on television. Throwing down money like it was nothing and earning it back just as fast. Dean had played his first pool game, and cleaned house, when he was nine, with five-year-old Sam and a sippy cup on the bar stool behind him rooting him on. This was nothing.

And this time, it was Castiel. There was something pretty freaking helpful about an angel who could figure out in two seconds if the other guy was cheating. Castiel would use his angel mojo to turn over one of the cards in Dean’s hand if he noticed any under-the-table business going down, and Dean would call it so fast it’d leave the other guy’s head spinning. So Castiel got his kicks for outing the liars, and Dean got his kicks for being freaking _boss_ at the game.

He stayed away from the slot machines, though. There wasn’t any real fun in earning money on pure chance.

So they’d clean house in every casino they went through, maybe lose a couple games when their luck took a slide, and shag ass when people started getting suspicious. Not Dean’s fault he was the poker king. Or that he had a walking, talking, breathing lie detector in trenchcoat following him around.

            Not a bad day off. Actually. He was kind of having fun, even though in the back of his mind there was this part that was hard-wired toward his phone, ready to grab it if it went off. If Sam decided to get in touch.

            Which he didn’t. And Dean told himself it didn’t matter.

“Dean.” Castiel said when they left Bellagio’s and took the boardwalk down to the water; sunset was coming on fast and the lights were flicking on all up and down the strip. If the place looked like the world’s biggest outdoor mall in daylight, Dean was interested to see how it’d shine at night. “I have counted, so far, seven-hundred-and-eighty-five people who were doing what you call ‘under the table’ dealing.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean stuffed the wad of cash they’d won at Bellagio’s into his pocket. It’d be pretty stupid to start counting it out in the middle of the street, but he figured at this point they were doing good.

Castiel stopped, leaning crossed arms on the railing overlooking the water. “I don’t understand your fascination with this place, Dean. It’s worse than a den of iniquity—it’s a hovel of thieves. There’s very little honesty here.”

Dean stopped, cutting a grin his way. “Well, yeah, Cass, it’s _Vegas_.” When Castiel just slid a look toward him sideways, Dean rolled his eyes and leaned back on the railing, watching the lights in Bellagio flipping on. “You know, you angels—you act like you’re all-knowing, but you got a hell of a lot to learn about humans.”

“It’s a side I’d rather not see.” Castiel said quietly. “And you’re just as much a liar as the rest of them.” When Dean glared at him, Castiel tilted his head back and looked at Dean sideways again. “There are always cases, Dean. Always things for you to hunt. You came here, not to escape from the fight, but to escape from the fact that you fear for your brother.”

“Stow the psycho-babble, Cass. You’re gonna ruin the mood.” Dean said stiffly, looking back at the hotel and casino without really seeing it.

“I don’t understand you, Dean.” Castiel insisted. “Why not call Sam?”

Dean’s jaw shifted and clenched. “You want a beer? I could use a beer.”

Castiel sighed. “No, Dean. I told you. I’ve given up alcohol.”

“Bull crap. C’mon.” Dean’s eyes swept the street, looking for a good place to duck inside, his gaze settling on a brightly-lit building across the bay. “Hey. ‘Napoleon’s Dueling Piano Bar.’ Sounds like fun.” He headed for it, not bothering to see if Castiel was following. Not sure he cared, either way. And maybe a little surprised when the angel fell into step with him, anyway.

They stepped into a warm, dimly lit longue that to Dean felt way too close and too all-eyes-on-him. He shoved between milling bodies, wincing at the sound of the pianists setting up. A good piano or organ intro was one thing—he was a firm believer in the power of Styx’s “Blue Collar Man” and its ranking as the best organ solo of all time. But piano on its own was another thing—especially when the poster outside the door advertised a modern rock duel tonight.

At least it was dark, though. And things were price-docked for the night. Not that it really mattered at this point, but anything cheap…

Dean grabbed a booth in the back and ordered two beers, grabbing one and sliding the other across the polished wooden table to Castiel, who was sitting with his hands on his knees looking like a five-year-old who’d gotten caught watching Casa Erotica.

“Dean. I told you, I have—”

“Man’s night out on the town, Cass.” Dean cut him off. “Drink it, or I’ll…” He trailed off, mumbling into a swig of beer. “Beat the crap outta you, or something.”

Castiel smiled slightly, and took a tentative sip of the beer. He swiped the foam moustache off his top lip and looked at Dean. “It’s believed that I have the lowest tolerance for alcohol in the garrison.”

“Great. Coupla drinks and you’ll forget you ever had a stick up your ass.”

Less than a couple. Halfway through his second, Castiel started blinking a lot. By his third, his eyes were sliding out of focus. Dean had to hit scotch shots just to keep up with him. And by the time some huge clock somewhere out in the forest of casinos, motels and flashing lights went off at midnight, Dean felt his eyes crossing.

“Dude.” He threw back a shot, tried to put the glass on the table, missed, and dropped it in his lap instead. He blinked to align the three different rooms swirling around him. “Dude, I am _smashed_.”

“Yet coherent.” Castiel said. “That is a…very good sign, Dean.”

“Yeah? Of what?”

Castiel stared at him so hard Dean could see the wheels turning in his head. “Well. It probably means you aren’t on your way to dying of liver failure.” Castiel cracked up and loosened his tie. “Which is more than I can say for myself.”

“So…what, you’re dying of liver failure?” Dean said, which seemed pretty funny to him at the moment. He grinned and shook his head, adding a fourth layer to the spinning walls. “Oh, man. I must be…how, how many shots did I have?”

“I lost count.”

“Guess that means I got room for one more.” Dean drunkenly waved at the man behind the bar-counter and motioned for another.

“Dean!” Castiel reached across the table and grabbed Dean’s wrist. “That would be unwise.”

“Unwise.” Dean echoed. “Why’s that?”

Castiel blinked at him rapidly. “I don’t remember.”

“All right, hands off, angel-food cake.” Dean shook off Castiel’s hand. “Why you gotta get all touchy-feely when you’re drunk?”

“I suppose it is because my inhibitions became tainted by my vessel’s intoxication, thus rendering my…” Castiel trailed off. “You know, I don’t believe it is of any import at the moment.”

Dean laughed, arched his eyebrows and tossed down the shot the bartender delivered to their table. He set the glass aside, wiped his mouth on his arm and looked at Castiel. “Hey, Cass?”

The angel was staring at the two dueling pianists, forehead wrinkled in thought. He reluctantly turned his eyes on Dean. “Yes?”

“What’d you mean about you, _dying of liver failure_?”

Castiel dropped his eyes to the table. He stayed quiet for a minute, then sighed. “It’s this war, Dean. I’m not certain I can win it.”

“Seems to be…I mean, looks like your side’s doing pretty well.” Dean said lamely—like he had any clue what was going on in Heaven these days.

“There is still so much dissension amongst my brothers. It’s enough to deepen the rift every day.”

“Yeah? What about those weapons Balthazar gave you?” Dean asked; he didn’t miss the way Castiel flinched, subtly, at the name.

“The weapons were not returned in the same condition they left.” Castiel kept his eyes down. “Most are damaged. Some beyond any hope of repair.”

“So? You’ve got a whole garrison of angels, right? Use your mojo, fix things up.”

“It’s not that simple.” Castiel shook his head slowly. “These weapons…cannot be repaired by any means that I find permissible.”

Dean blinked, trying to fit all the words together in his head. “Come again?”

Castiel looked away, back toward the pianists. “It’s nothing, Dean.”

“Yeah.” Dean mumbled, not really sure how many of Castiel’s buttons he wanted to push. Last time he’d done that, he’d ended up with a split lip and a killer headache, worse than the hangover he would probably get after tonight. “Yeah, well, we both got our problems, Cass.”

“You mean Sam.”

Dean wondered why the angel sounded relieved to change the subject. If that was relief. Maybe he just needed to poop. Did vessels poop with angels inside of them?

What the hell?

“I keep havin’ these dreams, Cass.” Dean admitted gruffly, staring down at the three shifting outlines of a shot glass beside his hand. “Dreams about Sam. Jumpin’ into the pit. Just not in the, uh…not in the cemetery. So it’s not like it’s a memory, y’know?”

“Dean.” Castiel leaned forward, tried to clap a hand on Dean’s shoulder, missed and ended up grabbing his elbow instead. “I am _sure_. Your brother is fine. He’s simply enjoying a vacation away from you and your,” Castiel rocked his head back and forth, eyes widening and pupils dilating as he tried to figure out the right word. “Your overbearing protectiveness.”

Dean pulled a sturgeon face. “Yeah, well, I just wish the kid would call, y’know?” He said with faked lightness, motioning for another shot. “Not like I get worried when he keeps me outta the loop for six weeks.”

“Your concern for Sam is admirable.”

“Man, I’m not lookin’ for some kind of award. ‘Best brother of the year.’ I just,” Dean broke off, trying to focus is scattered thoughts. “Ever since we were kids, it’s been me and him against the world, y’know? Even when dad was around, it was like Sam and I didn’t get him the way we got each other.” He picked up the next shot and just stared at it; now the he was actually talking about this, he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop. Like draining poison from a wound. Or maybe he was just flat-ass drunk. Who knew? “I guess I still feel responsible for the kid, even though he’s grown up a hell of a lot since Stanford.”

“He _did_ defeat the devil, Dean.”

Dean’s throat clenched. “Yeah, I know. I watched him jump in that pit, Cass. I keep watchin’ it happen, every other night in my sleep.”

“I’m sorry.” Castiel said, sincerely.

“It’s not just some order dad gave me.” Dean added quietly. “It’s not like it’s my personality either, y’know, it’s just…protect Sam. It’s like it’s a part of me. I don’t think I’m ever gonna get rid of it. God knows I’ve tried, but,” He shrugged. “Guess I’m stuck with it, same way I’m stuck with him.”

“That is truly inspiring, Dean.”

“Dude, shut up.” Dean crossed his arms on the table and dropped his head onto them. “Guh. There’s no way I’m drivin’ back to the motel.”

“I could always—as you say— _mojo_ us to the desired location.”

Dean picked up his head and glared at Castiel. “Hell no. You’re more drunk than I am. Probably…wind up in Egypt if you tried.” He sat up straight. “Friends don’t let friends…uh, teleport…drunk.”

“As you wish.” Castiel blinked rapidly. “How do you intend to return to the motel, then?”

“Walk?” Dean suggested.

“It is several miles away.”

“C’mon. Fresh air’ll do us good, right?” Dean staggered to his feet, while Castiel made the attempt with a little more dignity and a lot more leaning on the edge of the booth. Dean paid the bartender, who didn’t even bat an eye—probably used to his patrons leaving drunk. And with the piss-poor piano music being played tonight, Dean could understand why.

The first step outside was like a jolt to his nervous system; he’d forgotten how cold desert nights could be. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, Dean turned down the street and started walking—realized he was probably going the wrong way. Realized he had no idea which way _was_ the right way.

“Uh, Cass?’ He stopped. “A little help?”

“A human taxi service may better suit our needs.” Castiel said hazily. “You remember the address for the motel, I assume?”

“Dude.” Dean blinked, hard, trying to focus his eyes again. “Screw the motel. I’m crashing in my baby.”

“One advantage humans have over angels. You’re able to sleep off the side-affects of alcohol.” He swayed. “I should never have let you bring me to this bar, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, peer pressure, Cass. Always was your weakness.” He jerked his head at the Bellagio, the closest stable landmark—stable in the sense that it was familiar. Dean was still seeing three of it. “C’mon, should be able to find my way home from there.”

“That isn’t comforting.” Castiel murmured, but he followed Dean anyway, around the water’s edge and back into the harsh golden glow of Bellagio’s lights. They blazed into Dean’s eyes, way too bright—everything looked too bright. Shots, money, Vegas, bright lights, everything swimming together inside of his head.

Shots, money, Vegas, bright lights, water, screaming, Sam— _Sam_!—more screaming. Where the hell was the screaming coming from and why the _hell_ wasn’t his head getting in the game?

Dean flung out an arm and stopped in his tracks—stopped Castiel, too. “Ssh. You hear that?”

“All I can hear is your breathing, Dean. And you breathe very loudly.”

“Har har. Shut up.” Dean swept a glance around the vacant boardwalk, then slowly lowered his arm. “Huh. Thought I heard—”

An explosion of glass on the top floor of the Bellagio hotel made him duck slightly and flinch. Dean watched, stunned, as a dark shape plummeted toward the ground—for one second, felt like looking into his nightmares.

A soft, meaty thump jerked him back to reality. He ran on uncoordinated legs up to the semi-circular valet entrance and stood staring down at the body.

It was a man, probably in his late teens, early thirties; head turned toward Dean, blood running from his mouth, from his busted skull.

Dean looked up, squinting, at a shattered window on one of the upper floors—couldn’t really count at this point. Was pretty high up, though. Cocked his head to one side when he thought he saw something flicker—nah. Just a piece of the curtains getting tugged around by the wind.

Dean looked back down as Castiel joined him, kneeling and touching two fingers to the man’s throat. “He’s dead.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. You gonna bring him back?”

“It’s not my place to go around raising random people from the dead.” Castiel straightened. “There’s nothing I can do.”

People were starting to trickle out of the casino—probably they’d heard the same screams Dean had. Probably.

Question was, _whose_ screams? Hadn’t sounded like they were coming from a guy this old. Sounded way younger. Hell, coulda been a girl with a deep voice.

“What happened?” Someone in the crowd shouted, drawing the attention down to the body. A couple whispers flew around, started up the rumors. Someone called an ambulance; not like the poor bastard would need it now.

“Suicide.” Someone close to Dean called. “It looks like a suicide.”

Dean looked up at that window again, at the lone fluttering scrap of curtain.

Suicide. Yeah. Probably.

Didn’t explain the screaming.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_February 17 th, 2012_

_Desert Inn, Winchester, Nevada_

 

Dean felt like death warmed over a hot rock.

            It was pushing two in the morning by the time the cops finally finished questioning him. He hadn’t seen Castiel since the angel had confirmed the body was dead—which was probably just as well. Castiel didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut, and his people-acting skills sucked. He probably would’ve wound up blaming the death on demons or angels or God knew what else. But then Dean had to find his way back to the motel alone. Which took another hour and gave him the worst headache he’d had in about a year.

            He unlocked the motel room door, cracked it open and poked his head inside. Took a look around; no Castiel. Maybe he really _had_ teleported to Egypt.

            Dean ducked inside, shut the door, dead-bolted it, turned around.

            Castiel was lying down on one of the beds.

            “Dude!” Dean snapped, jolting back a step. “How’d you even get in here? Figured you were too drunk to get your aim right.”  
            “I have been attempting to relocate this motel,” Castiel said slowly. “For the last…hour and a half.”

            “Good job, Copper, looks like that nose led you right back.” Dean stopped, sniffing. “Hey. Speaking of noses. You smell that?”

            Castiel picked up his head, blinking blearily at Dean. “I smell nothing out of the ordinary, Dean.”

            Dean’s face twitched and scrunched. “Huh.” He shrugged. “Well, man, my sense’a smell must be shot to hell.” He collapsed face-first on the bed, ignoring a puff of rotting stench that filled his nostrils. “You wake me up for somethin’ other than the end of the world, Cass, I swear to God I’ll—”

            “Do not take my Father’s name in vain. And go to sleep, Dean. I won’t wake you unless it’s an urgent matter.”

            “Better not.” Dean grumbled, burying his face in the pillow.

            Downside to being in a room with an angel: he was a mouthbreather. And while Dean was used to sharing a room with someone else at this point, there was a big difference between Sam’s sleeping, breathing sounds and Castiel huffing like a beached whale while he waited for the alcohol to flush out of his system.

            “ _Dude_. Cass.” Dean groaned after half an hour of flipping around trying to block out Castiel’s frequent sighs of boredom. “Go get a coffee or something. Just…don’t _sit_ there. You sound _asthmatic._ ”

            “I don’t think you understand how painful this experience is for me, Dean.” Castiel replied.

            “Trust me, buddy, you’re not hurting half as much as you’re gonna if you don’t keep it down over there.” Dean scrubbed a hand across his eyes and flopped his head back down on the pillow.

            Castiel kept breathing like a freaking windstorm. Then he sighed. “I wonder if this is what it feels like.”

            “Huh?” Dean grumbled into the pillow.

            “To have your Grace removed. I wonder if it feels anything like this.”

            Dean cracked an eye open and looked at Castiel; he was sitting propped up against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. “What, like you’d wanna give that up?”

            Castiel’s eyes strayed back and forth. “The thought had occurred to me.”

            Dean picked his head up. “Cass, you’ve got a lotta power, man. You can bring people back from the freakin’ _dead_. Hell, I’d’ve given anything to have that when Sam died in Cold Oak the first time.”

            “Humans are remarkably single-minded. You have the unique ability of only looking at the immediate scope of the word around you.” Castiel rocked his head sideways and pinned a soulful gaze on Dean. “The cost of the power is more than most could bear, Dean. Sometimes,” He looked away again, tight-lipped and grim. “Sometimes I’m not even certain how _I_ can bear it.”

            “That’s easy, Cass.” Dean mumbled. “You got friends to help you out, right? Not like you gotta carry the whole damn thing alone.”

            There was a pause. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

            After that, the angel seemed to make an effort to control his breathing. Wasn’t as good as the steady, normal sound of Sam sleeping in the other bed, but it was a start, after six weeks of his own restlessness filling in the gaps. Dean drifted off to sleep.

            And that was where the peace slammed on the brakes and back-pedaled.

            Dean knew where he was with the first off-white, red-tinged slash. Strung up meat hooks cutting into his right shoulder, his left side. Vicious teeth and claws sinking into him from every side. Demonic chewtoy; Hell’s little bitch.

            For the first time in—God, he’d been out for years, he’d pushed it down for _years—_ Dean was back on the rack.

            Something cold and hard and sharp sank into his chest; not teeth, too focused, didn’t go deep enough. Thirty years on this torture bed had taught Dean what every imaginable kind of pain could feel like. This one traced the surface of his chest like burning, like someone holding a match against his skin.

            When it arced down, match exploded into wildfire taking over his whole body. Dean’s back arched, neck muscles seizing. Screams ripping out of him like punches, like they were torqued out of his system by huge hands. He heard a hiss of laughter— _not Alistair_ —and a hand grabbed the hair on the back of his head.

            “Jussssstjussjusttt gettinginging starteted with thisssssss.” Voice came through weird and garbled and skippy, like a busted record. “Telll meeetellme where isssss—”

            Dean’s head snapped back and he screamed—not a human sound, not even close. Like fire fanning up in a windstorm, the last big rush of a tornado sucking back up into the sky. It took everything out of him in one damn gust, left him empty and broken, cracked-open, bleeding everywhere.

            Then sleep grabbed him and dragged him down deeper, into dreams of scantily-clad girls from the strip, and playing crazy poker in his sleep.

            But the fire kept burning in the back of his mind.

 

 

            Dean woke up to the feeling of his guts ripping apart.

            And he smelled something that smelled pretty _dead_.

            His cheeks ballooned out as Dean forced down the bile that surged up in the back of his throat. But opening his eyes brought on a headache like a freaking slap to the face with a crowbar.

            He barely made it stumbling into the bathroom before he purged his insides of all the alcohol he’d thrown back the night before. And kept throwing up until he could finally sit back against the wall and breathe, even with that nasty taste in his mouth.

            Waited a few minutes, he could finally move. He guessed he’d woken up at some point during the night, shucked off his jacket, because it was gone and he was sitting on the floor in just a t-shirt and jeans. Scrubbing his face with one hand, Dean shut his eyes and leaned his head back on the wall.

            “Cass?” He called. No answer. Dean frowned. “Cass!”

            “Dean.” Castiel’s voice was loud and really fast. Dean flinched, hard.

            “Ow! Dammit, Cass, tone it down like…five notches, all right?” He cracked his eyes open and peered up at the angel standing in the doorway—did a double-take. Castiel was staring at him with huge blue eyes, tapping his fingers sporadically on the doorpost. “Uh. You okay?”

            “I was very bored and slightly lonely and I took your advice and walked down the street to imbibe a surplus of coffee in hopes of offsetting the sting of the alcohol. Or rather, I took some of your earnings. And I teleported.” Castiel said rapidly. “Dean. My vessel. It has a very low tolerance for caffeinated beverages. These effects. They are extraordinary.” He splayed out his hand and stared at it, head nodding slightly back and forth. He looked at Dean with an awkward grin. “I find this to my liking. Dean. My vessel can move rapidly now. I feel as though my Grace has grown stronger.”

            “It’s the caffeine, Cass.” Dean shut his eyes, then peered up at Castiel again sideways as the angel started pacing. Dean groaned. “Oh, dude. I did _not_ call you out here to watch you go nuts.”

            “If this is what humans refer to as ‘nuts’, Dean, then I would like to ‘be nuts’ much more often.” Castiel stopped pacing and finally seemed to notice Dean was sitting on the bathroom floor, drenched in sweat and pale. He frowned. “Are you all right?”

            “Super.” Dean dragged himself gingerly to his feet and flushed the toilet.  “Just got done throwing up my spleen.” He turned on the sink, splashed cold water on his face and glared at Castiel. “I’m awesome.”

            “I warned you against ingesting too many shots of alcohol.”

            “Are you kiddin’ me, you’re a friggin’ _enabler_.” Dean sniffed, wiped his nose on his arm and scrunched up his face. “What is that _God-_ awful smell?”

            Castiel picked up his head like a dog catching a scent, sniffing the air. “If I didn’t know better, I would say it smells similar to Ramath-lehi under a burning sun.” He looked at Dean wide-eyed and Dean blinked back, frustrated.

            “Cass.” He spread his arms in a wide shrug. “I _do not understand that reference_.”

            “Ah. Well, I suppose you had to be there.”

“Be where?”

“You should read your Bible more often.” Castiel brushed past Dean, sniffed around the bathroom, then walked back out. “I cannot pinpoint the source.” He swung around, looking thoughtful, then crowded Dean back against the sink and whiffed his breath; blinked, and winced slightly. “Well. Your breath is not pleasant, Dean, but it is also not the source of the smell.”

            “Yeah, I figured.” Dean said stiffly, trying to squirm away from Castiel. “Since I _smell_ it. I don’t _taste_ it.”

            “Well, sometimes cancers of the mouth can manifest as a scent.” Castiel backed off and Dean could finally breathe.

            “Mouth cancer. Sounds…” He trailed off, the smell snagging in his throat. “I gotta talk to the manager about that. _God_.”

            “I would suggest brushing your teeth first.”

            “I was gonna.” Dean muttered, going to hunt up his jacket.

            The motel staff listened pretty well, considering Dean couldn’t exactly explain the smell or where it was coming from. The manager, a guy in his late forties, seemed pretty concerned, actually.

“How long has this been going on, sir?” He asked; Dean was leaning against the check-in counter, elevator-type music wafting down from the speakers, the overhead fan _whumping_ in his ears. The steady sound helped cool down his headache.

“I dunno. Everything was fine last night. Woke up this morning and the whole place smelled like a dead body.” Dean cut a glance toward the tall, really smoking hot assistant who was pouring over an old sign-in sheet and catching looks his way every few minutes. Dean flipped a grin her way. She smiled shyly back and kept working.

The manager cleared his throat. “We can do a complete sweep of the room, sir, check for any abnormalities. Would that be all right?”

Dean reminded himself to hide the duffle and scatter the salt from the windowsill. “Yeah, that’d be good, thanks.” He glanced up at the muted grainy television mounted in the corner of the wall, hesitating when he saw the lead story. It looked like the panoramic camera view was from a helicopter circling Bellagio’s.

“Hey.” Dean patted his palm lightly on the counter to get the manager’s attention. “You hear about this?”

The manager looked up at the screen and paled. “Yes. Tragic.”

“Guess it was a suicide.” Dean propped his elbow on the counter.

“Mmm.” The manager went back to his book.

“Hey, you got any idea why the guy did it?”

The manager cut him a look that’d dropped about twenty degrees. “That is Bellagio’s, sir. This is the Desert Inn. I don’t know the affairs of that place, but if you’d like to be a part of them, perhaps you could move _there_.”

He snapped his book shut and stalked through the door behind the counter, slamming it shut behind him.

Dean widened his eyes and blew out a breath. “Hooo. You guys must lose a _lot_ of customers that way.”

“Sorry.” The girl got to her feet, a little cold nameplate clicking on her shoulder. “It’s a touchy subject.”

“Well, I can see that.” Dean’s gaze swept over her, lingering on the nametag. “Alice.” He smiled and she smiled back. “Guy’s a little green with envy, huh?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” Alice said. “His father oversees Bellagio’s. Mister Marcus is a little bit of a black sheep in his family.”

“Huh.” Dean mulled that one over. “Well, hey. Guy takes the plunge outta his dad’s casino, people will probably come askin’ around, right? Might be good for business.”

“Mmm.” Alice hummed. “Contrary to popular belief, not all publicity is good publicity.”

“That so?” Dean let his eyes sweep over her again; not exactly looking, just giving himself time to think. Not that he wasn’t noticing; girl was set. But he couldn’t shake this feeling like there was something going on here. “Had some bad run-ins with the paparazzi before?”

“Kind of hard not to, when his father owns Bellagio’s.” Alice leaned across the counter, elbows tucked in tight. Made things stand out. “Between you and me,” She whispered. “This place doesn’t even come close to a _casino_.”

“You got that right, sweetheart.” Dean flipped on a thousand-watt grin. “Thanks for the chat.”

“Anytime, _sir_.” Now she was the one giving _him_ the look—feeling all hot under the collar. Dean rocked his shoulders slightly and backed away.

By the time Dean got back to the room, his head was a little clearer. In fact the only thing that was still tingly and fuzzy were his memories of the night before. He just remembered Bellagio’s, and that guy taking a swan dive out of the window.

“Hey, Cass.” Dean called as he walked in, kicking the door shut behind him. The bright lights in the room flared up, searing his eyes. Dean stopped, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh. Man. Kill the lights, would ya?”

“My apologies.” Dean heard clicking and a _shoof_ as the blinds slid shut. He cracked his eyes open with a sigh of relief. “Are we ready to depart?” Castiel stepped into Dean’s line of sight, hands twitching slightly.

“Dude, you _seriously_ need to calm down.” Dean groaned, wandering to the bed and sitting down. “How much you remember about last night?”

“Everything is a blur.” Castiel said; then paused, and squinted. “A very rapid, discolored blur.”

“So, you don’t remember that guy pulling a Daniel Day Lewis out that window?”

“What is a Daniel Day Lewis?”

Dean peered at him. “Last of the Mohicans?” When Castiel looked at him blankly, Dean rolled his eyes. “Thought you angels were all in touch with that whole, ‘Earth is our brother’ thing.”

“The earth is a sphere comprised of stone, molten matter, and chemicals suspended in the abyss of space. My brothers and I are spiritual beings. How would I feel any familial relation to a terrestrial globe?”

“Y’know what, forget about it.” Dean sat back. “You ready to hit the strip?”

“With some apprehension…yes. I am.”

“All right.” Dean stood up, freezing as the room tipped dangerously around him. “First things first. Greasy food, hangover remedy. And I gotta find my car.”

 

 

            After a decent portion of a dripping juicy cheeseburger and half a coffee, both of which he’d caught Castiel eyeing like a fiend, they caught a bus back to Downtown Vegas. Then it was just a matter of walking the strip under an overcast sky, looking for the parking garage where Dean had left the Impala the day before.

            Easier said than done. They were worse than turned around. It was pushing noon and Dean’s stomach was starting a riot again by the time they found the place, right across from Bellagio’s. Dean noted with no small amount of annoyance that he’d been _this friggin’ close_ to his baby the night before and hadn’t just crashed in the front seat. Could’ve avoided the whole nasty smell incident in the morning.

            Dean ran his hand over the hood of the car, walking around to the trunk. “Hey, sweetheart. Sorry I forgot about you.” He ignored the look a jittery Castiel was giving him, stopping with his hand over the latch on the trunk, looking through the open side of the garage toward Bellagio’s. Even from this far away he could see the yellow flapping crime scene tape, and frowned. Couldn’t be easy for business, having one of the biggest casinos in Vegas shut down because of a suicide.

            He started tapping his hand on the trunk.

            Suicide. Right.

            “Dean.” Castiel said. “Time is not at our disposal. We should carry on toward whatever destination you have in mind.”

            “Right.” Dean muttered. He stopped tapping. “Screw this.” Popped the trunk and pulled out the EMF reader. “C’mon, Cass.”

            “Is there some point to bringing your hunting paraphernalia into the casino?” Castiel asked, falling into step with Dean as they headed back for the street.

            “We’re not gambling. Not yet.” Dean said grimly. “I wanna check something out.”

            “Dean—”

            “Gimmie five minutes, Cass, all right?”

            “Dean.” Castiel grabbed Dean’s arm, stopping him. Dean swung around, face scrunching with anger. Castiel held something out to him—laminated and catching the sunlight. Dean stared at it.

            Fake ID. Forensics.

            He looked up at Castiel wide-eyed. “How’d you grab this?”

            “I told you. I am moving quite fast today.” Castiel said self-satisfaction. Dean grinned, clipped the ID onto his jacket.

            “All right, meet me in the lobby in five.”

            Castiel nodded, looked up and down the street and vanished. Dean flicked the ID, shrugged and headed for the door of Bellagio’s.

            Cops out front. More forensic scientists, too. Crap. Dean ducked under the tape and tried to walk like he was supposed to be there.

            One of the scientists looked up; frowned. Shoved onto his feet. “You’re not supposed to be in here!”

            “Relax, Grissom.” Dean flashed the ID tag. “I’m from the Reno unit. Higher-ups sent me down here to take a look at the scene.”

            “I think we’ve _got_ it, thanks.” The guy said stiffly. “Why are they bringing outside guys in? This is your standard suicide. We’re just sweeping up the mess.”

            “More hands you got on the case, faster we can get this mess cleaned up and reopen the casino, right?” Dean smirked. “Money’s gotta move.”

            “Ain’t that the truth.” The guy muttered.

            “What’ve you got?” Dean asked, kneeling beside the residual spray of dried blood on the pavement of the valet circle.

            “Like I said. Suicide. Guy must’ve lost one too many games.” The scientist looked up at the window, squinting against the overcast glow off the side of the building. “Broke most of the bones in his body. Put a rib through his lung. Had this really weird cut on his forehead, though.”

            “Weird?” Dean perked up. “Weird, how?”

            “Well, I mean, it was just a cut. But with the way he fell? Face shouldn’t’ve been cut up at all.”

            “Like maybe he was in a struggle before he fell?” Dean suggested.

            “I know what you’re thinking.” The guy said. “And he wasn’t pushed.”

            “You sure about that?”

            “Well, unless the guy he was fighting picked him up—all two hundred and fifty pounds of him—and _threw_ him out the window.” The scientist gestured between the window and the pavement. “He couldn’t have made it this far if he wasn’t taking a real leap.” He shrugged. “Besides, they checked the room. No sign of anyone else in there except for him.”

            “Right.” Dean stayed down for a minute, thinking that one over. Then he got to his feet. “Mind if I take a look upstairs?”

            The guy shrugged.

            “All right, thanks.”

            One thing Dean could say about Bellagio’s: place was _loaded_.  Bright white, kinda made his head hurt, and a coffer in the ceiling filled up with pieces of blown glass. The place wasn’t as loud as Dean would’ve expected, though—looked like they’d had to evacuate while the investigation was going on.

            It wasn’t hard to find Castiel; he was standing under the coffer, staring up, the glass reflecting in his eyes. He looked around when Dean joined him.

            “I’ve located the manager. He is on the second floor, in a private office.”

            “Thanks. You coming?”

            “That would be unwise, seeing as how I am not carrying proper identification.” Castiel straightened up. “I will investigate the room where the man was staying.”

            “All right, lemee know what you find.”

            “I will.” Castiel pulled another disappearing act.

            “Houdini.” Dean said under his breath, heading for the stairs.

            Wasn’t hard to find the office: end of the second floor hallway with the name of the manager scrawled on the door: Clinton DeRamey. Dean knocked on the swirled, frosted glass and waited.

            “Come in.”

            Dean did, flashing his badge on the move. There was a huge desk pushed up against the back wall, probably cost as much as Dean had scraped in winnings last night, and there was a guy sitting behind it—probably DeRamey. An older woman was with him, hair slicked back into a bun, and a guy a couple years older than Dean who was looking at him with his nose up in the air.

Dean shot the guy a warning glare, then turned toward the manager. “Sir, I’m with the forensic unit out of Reno. Mind if I ask you a few questions about what happened?”

“Isn’t that a job for the police?” The younger guy asked snidely.

“Yes, it is.” Dean said sharply. “But forensics only tell half the story. Balance the facts you already _know_ with what the body shows you, and you get the bigger picture.”

The kid cleared his throat and looked down.

“What can we do for you?” DeRamey asked.

“Anyone in the hotel see this guy jump?” Dean asked. “Any witnesses?”

“Um, no.” The woman answered quickly. “No one was around, it was, um—it was rather busy downstairs.”

“Great. So, you don’t think anyone…” Dean trailed off, waiting to see if they’d put it together on their own. No dice. “Pushed him? Y’know, maybe he got into a fight, things got a little ugly and our friend out there got the short straw?”

“There was no one on the floor at the time.” DeRamey said heavily. “We checked the security tapes.” He folded his hands and stared down at them. “It was _just_ a suicide. That’s all. That’s all it was.”

Dean cocked his head a little to one side. “Wait, now you don’t sound so sure.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing, Clint.” The woman patted DeRamey’s arm.

“Oh, please.” The guy snorted. “Please tell me this isn’t about that stupid curse.”

“Jeremy!” The lady snapped.

“Curse? What curse?” Dean butted in, alerted.

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “It’s some _stupid_ story the staff started.” When Dean didn’t take his eyes off the kid, he started squirming. “Someone noticed that people who stay in that room keep killing themselves. Like, maybe one person every couple of years. Not like it’s some big coincidence or anything, people die in Vegas all the time.”

“Yeah, but always the same way?”

“Suicide is not unheard of. It’s not even uncommon.” DeRamey lifted his head. “Not in the gambling industry.”

Dean looked between the three of them, incredulous. “So, what? You’re not even gonna look into it?”

“Oh, sure, let’s just go rustle up some palm-reader off the street, I’m sure she could help.” Jeremy snapped. “Why don’t you do your whole _corpse-reading_ , talking-to-the-dead thing and let us handle the delicate part of the business, okay?”

            “Jeremy, that’s enough.” DeRamey said quietly. “The man has every right to be concerned. Anyone would be.”

            Jeremy gave Dean that nose-up look again. God, Dean _hated_ that look. Hated it when Sam gave it to him. Hated when girls gave it to him. Hated when uptight douchebags gave it to him.

            “Gotta say, the care you guys give to your clients.” Dean shook his head with a smirk, looking down. “Y’know, Desert Inn’s got you guys beat for customer service.”

            Jeremy swore. “That crap hole isn’t—”

            “Enough.” DeRamey’s leathery dark skin had flushed almost white. His eyes were fixed on Dean. “I think you should go, now. Your unit must be missing you.”

            Dean turned for the door.

            “You come back, and we’ll have issues.” Jeremy called.

            “Believe me, buddy, we’ve already got issues.” Dean stepped out, shut the door and headed for the lobby. “Cass, let’s go!”

            The angel materialized behind Dean. “Where to next?”

            “County office. Find some records.” Dean grimaced. “Looks like we’ve got a case on our hands.” 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

_February 17 th, 2012_

_Clark_ _County Government Building, Las Vegas, Nevada_

Not being in a casino was shockingly _less_ of a disappointment then expected.

            Honestly, Dean figured he was just tired of not having anything to do. So even research, the kind his geek brother would’ve flipped over—he wasn’t complaining. Except that it meant being crammed in a little office with Castiel, who was still twitchier than a ferret and lusting for more coffee. Dean was starting to consider an intervention when he finally flipped open one of the county police reports and a name jumped out at him off the page: _BELLAGIO’S_. Big bold black letters.

            “Whoa.” He slapped the book back open. “Hold up a second.” He scanned the report, then flung his pen across the room, bouncing it off of Castiel, who was pacing back and forth by the door. “Cass, c’mere.”

            “What is it?” Castiel hurried to stand behind Dean’s shoulder. Figured. He was hurrying everywhere today.

            “Fourteen years ago, someone called the cops on a dispute between these two guys. Looks like it started out as an argument, escalated from there. Fistfight. Witnesses say they saw one guy get pitched out the window.” He looked up at Castiel. “Guess where that happened?”

            “Bellagio’s.” Castiel frowned. 

            “Yup.” Dean swung the report around so the angel could read it. “Cops showed up, no body. Chalked it up to a buncha drunks having fun, clapped them all with a fine and never reopened the case. Except this guy—Troy Wainwright. Went missing that weekend, never showed up again. Two years later, another poor bastard grabs the magic feather and tries to fly. Then again, two years after that. Same room. Same month every other year. Not all on the same day, but…” He shrugged. “It fits.”

            “This is a pattern.” Castiel’s eyes widened and he pulled up a chair. “This is good news, Dean. Patterns will lead to answers.”

            “Yeah, that’s what we do around here, Cass.” Dean pulled the book back. “Y’know, the way that guy was talking in the manager’s office, though…he made this sound like it was just some kinda urban legend.”

            “A legend? How can it be a legend when there is verifiable proof of the incident?”

            “Brand new casino, you don’t want this kinda publicity. You pay enough big bucks to the right person, and you can cover up anything.” Dean slammed the record shut. “Get it buried pretty deep. So deep, people stop looking.”

            “Except for people like you and Sam.” Castiel said.

            Dean’s mouth twitched. “Exactly.” He shoved the book away, crossed his arms behind his head and looked up at the ceiling. “So everyone’s got this written off as coincidence or some kinda curse. Got any ideas?”

            “Demons?”

            “You’ve got a one-track mind, Cass.” Dean kicked his feet up on the edge of the stainless-steel table. “I never got a chance to EMF that place. I think we need to head back over there and find out what happened to the first body that got the boot out the window. And who booted it.”

            “It sounded to me as though the manager of that hotel would not appreciate your presence inside Bellagio’s again.” Castiel said frankly.

            “Friggin’ eavesdropper.” Dean muttered. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Plus forensics was clearing out when I left. They’re not gonna buy that I dropped my wallet at the scene of the crime.”

            “Then would you like me to teleport you inside the walls of the hotel?”

            “Uh, _no_. That’s bad enough when you haven’t had—like, six pots of coffee.” Dean shook the gruesome thought out of his head. “Nope, I got a better idea.” He grinned at Castiel’s nervous expression. “How’s that appetite?”

 

 

            “I’m sorry, sir, I’m not sure I heard you right. Could you say that again, please?”

            “I _told_ you. I am an angel of the Lord, and I am seeking your cheeseburgers.”

            Hunched over behind a pillar in the lobby, Dean bit his tongue to keep from bursting out laughing. The hotel was still on lockdown, so they’d had to sneak in using an unlocked window on the first floor, and giving in to the hilariousity of the moment would pretty much ruin everything.

Still. Dean wasn’t sure which was funnier at this point—the look on the bellboy’s face when Castiel had stepped out from behind the pillar, seemingly out of nowhere, or the way he was gawking at the angel right now.

            “I…uh…the restaurant is closed, sir.” The kid stammered.

            “Did you hear what I said, _boy_?” Castiel towered over the kid, putting on his menacing voice. “I am a divine spiritual being. My true form alone is beyond your comprehension. I could smite you with a glance. And I am seeking your cheeseburgers. Promptly.”

            Well, that was three huge threats rolled into one. Coughing a chuckle into his fist, Dean leaned around the pillar and saw the bellboy shrinking down away from Castiel.

            “Uh, just let me…” He scurried toward the check-in counter.

            “Dean.” Castiel said over his shoulder and under his breath. “I believe he intends to call security.”           

            “Perfect.” Dean gave him an “a-okay” gesture. “Keep him distracted, Cass. And don’t get caught.”

            Doubled over, Dean ran across the lobby, ducked behind another pillar, waited a few seconds. Didn’t hear anyone calling him back. Slipped down the next hallway; edged around the corner and headed for the elevators.

            The closest one pinged open when he was two steps away. Dean yanked back, hard, ducking into a niche in the wall as Jeremy walked past, checking his watch, walking like a guy on business.

            Dean took a deep breath, leaned around the corner, glanced both ways and then hurried for the elevator, mashing the “close doors” button until they finally, slowly slid shut and the car headed up.

            Dean listened to the cheerful music filling up the silence, looking at his reflection in the door; his blurred, sepia shadow.

            Dean eyes found the place in the unfocused reflection of his chest, over the amulet. Remembered a really weird dream he’d had—fire. Burning right over his heart. Right over the amulet.

The doors slid open and Dean stepped out into a hallway lined with doors. Wasn’t too hard to find the right one; more yellow crime-scene tape forming an ‘X’ over the door. Dean pulled out his pocket knife, slit through it and tucked his hand up into the sleeve of his jacket, sliding the door open.

            The room was huge and bright, open warm desert air coming in through the tarp over the broken window. Glass scattered everywhere—not just from the window, but from a couple broken champagne glasses. Okay. Like someone had been really pissed and throwing stuff against the walls.

            Or.

            Dean walked over to the window, twitched the tarp aside and looked out. Yeah, the guy had definitely flown a ways. Dean wasn’t even sure someone _could_ jump that far.

            More importantly, where the hell was Castiel?

            “Cass?” Dean started to turn around, then froze, gaze slanting down. “You’re right behind me.”

            “Yes, I am.”

            Dean turned and Castiel backed off. “You ditch the bellboy?”

            “I told him I would leave without contest if he agreed not to press charges for entering the premise without permission.” Castiel’s gaze swept the walls. “It looks as though some sort of altercation happened here.” His gaze settled back on Dean. “What do your instincts tell you?”

            “My instincts tell me,” Dean reached into the front of his jacket and pulled out the EMF reader. “That it’s a really good thing I brought this baby along.”

            He flicked the thing on and it lit up like a Christmas tree, jumping from nil to red in half a second. Dean held it out at arm’s length, listening to the whirrs and whistles that told him spiritual activity was through the roof.

            “That is not reacting to my presence, is it?” Castiel asked.

            “No way, Jose.” Dean turned a slow circle, wide eyes glancing from corner to corner. “This place is a spiritual hotspot.” He lowered the EMF. “Guess I was right.”

            “You have a theory?”

            “It’s a ghost. Gotta be.” Dean leaned around the tarp for another look outside. “Probably the ghost of the guy who got chucked out the window when Bellagio’s first opened fourteen years ago.”

            “And he is ending lives the same way his was ended.”

            “Eh, well, vengeful ghosts. Always fun.” Dean turned around to face him. “Still up for some ninja work, Cass?”

            The angel shrugged.

            “All right, I need you to get into the manager’s office. He should have old logbooks in cold storage. I wanna know who was staying in this room the night the hotel opened. Find out if it was that Wainwright guy or someone else. Got it?”

            “Logbooks. Yes.” Castiel tilted his head. “For what purpose?”

            “Pressure points.” Dean said. “C’mon, Cass, while I’m young.”

            Castiel disappeared in a rustle of clothing and Dean prowled the outskirts of the suite, tracking the EMF back and forth. There weren’t any real hotspots, the whole room itself was a livewire of activity.

            Something creaked behind him.

            Dean stopped, blowing out a long breath—watching it fog in front of his face.

            “Oh, cra—”

            A nova of spiritual energy slammed into him, taking Dean off his feet and then slamming him back down on the floor. His shoulder busted against tile and he cringed, dragging up onto his feet. Barely got a breath in before another hit came, square on in the chest, sending him ass-end onto the table in the middle of the room. Dean skidded and rolled off, coming up braced, realizing, too late, that he’d left the freakin’ salt rounds in the car.

            The next blow caught him under his chin, snapping his head back. Dean went reeling, staggering, his sense of balance totally ripped—crashing back through the tarp, feet sliding off the edge, ghost coming after him with its hand up, aimed at his forehead—

            A hand grabbed his wrist, spinning him around onto the carpet; at the same time a sizzling flash arced through the room. Dean ducked his head, shielding his eyes until the glow faded and only a steady hiss remained.

            He picked his head up.

            Breathing hard, arm dripping blood, Castiel stood by the wall to his right. An Enochian symbol was painted on the bar counter of the small kitchenette.

            “What _was_ that?” Dean demanded, wincing, grabbing his hurt shoulder.

            “Your ghost, I assume.”

            “Not the ghost, the,” Dean gestured to the symbol.

            “It’s a simple banishing sigil for spirits. Nowhere near as powerful as what I used for Raphael and Zachariah. But,” His hand slid off the counter. “Effective.”

            Dean jerked his chin at the slit on Castiel’s arm. “You should wrap that up, man.”

            “I’ll be all right.” Castiel said quietly, turning to face him. “I came as quickly as I could. When I sensed the spirit’s presence,” He broke off, mouth tipping into a dry frown, staring at Dean. “Are you all right?”

            “Ugh. Yeah.” Dean knuckled the lump forming under his chin. “Son of a bitch hits hard, though.” He scanned the room. “How long’ll that hold him off?”

            “Not long. We should go.”

            “First things first.” Dean slammed through the cabinets until he found a container of salt, and laid down a line on the door and around the window. “I don’t want this thing getting anywhere near the rest of the hotel.”

            Once he’d laid out the salt, Dean backed out into the hallway, Castiel right behind him. “Find anything in the records?”

            “Yes. There were no patrons in this room the night the police were called here.”

            “Not even Wainwright?” Castiel shook his head and Dean frowned. “Then who the hell’s ghost was that?”

            “I have no idea, Dean.”

            Dean’s eyes slid away from Castiel, down the hallway—settled on a lone, lanky, hunched figure hurrying toward the elevators. Dean straightened up, staring, feeling a slow small clicking starting in his mind.

            Who would have the influence and money to cover up a murder?

            “I think I got an idea.” He popped Cass on the arm with the back of his hand. “C’mon.” He hurried down the hallway after the man.

            Dean and Castiel took the stairs, almost running. Dean burst through the door on the second floor and headed straight for DeRamey’s office, shoving the door open right when the old man was about to sit down.

            “Excuse me!” DeRamey barked as Dean barged in. “Young man, this is my private office! Forensic scientist or not, I must ask you to—”

            “Yeah.” Dean cut him off. “See, that’s the thing. I’m not a scientist. I didn’t come here to solve this guy’s murder. I already know what killed him.”

            DeRamey’s face went ashy. “You do?”

            “Oh yeah.” Dean’s mouth twisted, humorlessly. “What I wanna know is why you killed Troy Wainwright.”

            “I-I don’t,” DeRamey’s eyes moved past Dean as Castiel stepped into the doorway, trenchcoat swirling. The manager gulped and looked unwillingly back at Dean. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I think it’s time you left my casino.”

            Dean leaned his flat hands on the desk. “Not happening. Not until you tell me what happened up in that room.”

            “You arrogant—” DeRamey made a grab for Dean’s collar and Castiel moved between them, grabbing the man’s wrist, stopping his arm.

            “I suggest you calm down.” He said coolly.

            DeRamey slowly, slowly sank down into his chair. He looked up at Dean with wet, wide eyes. “How?”

            “Didn’t pay ’em to bury it deep enough, Clint.” Dean said frankly. “Saw the police report. Put two and two together. So. You gonna tell us why you killed him?”

            DeRamey cleared his throat. “This is ludicrous. I don’t know who you are, but you aren’t authorized to be inside this hotel. Remove yourself from the premise or I’ll call security immediately.”

            “Listen up, you son of—”

            “Dean.” Castiel stepped between them, facing Dean, totally still. “I think it’s best we leave.” When Dean didn’t move, glaring at DeRamey, Castiel stepped closer and murmured in Dean’s ear, “We have no proof. Dean.”

            Dean’s mouth jerked back into a dry, cold smile, and then he turned and stalked out of the office. Stormed through the lobby. Punched through the front door and didn’t stop until he’d made it to the parking garage across the street and climbed behind the wheel of the Impala. To his surprise, Castiel joined him.

            “We shoulda gotten a confession outta him, Cass!” Dean snapped, slamming the door shut.

            “Dean…”

            “Guy’s got a pretty big skeleton in his closet, Cass, and—what, we’re just gonna let him get away with it? No. We gotta find this body, we gotta end this or that spirit’s gonna keep tossing people out of that window every two years!”

            “Dean. Didn’t you notice?” Castiel glanced at him. “In the reports we sifted through. All of the deaths at the casino were men of a certain age. All of them young.”

            Dean paused. “And…?”

            “Assuming the ghost is targeting men that somehow fit the profile of its killer. Clinton DeRamey would have been too old at the time of the murder to be the basis of the pattern.”

            Dean stared at him. Then started kicking himself mentally. “Okay, great. So we’ve got nothing.” Castiel looked out the window and Dean turned to face him on the seat. “Cass, the man was hiding _something_.”

            “Perhaps he knows who the real perpetrator is.” Castiel suggested.

            Dean sat back, fingers flexing around the steering wheel. Scrolling through everything they knew about this sudden, strange case. All these pieces that meshed together and kept falling apart.

            “Hey, secrets tend to stay in the family, right?” He said suddenly, the lightbulb going on. “You ever hear of that Vegas legend where a dead body gets crammed into a mattress? Couple smells it, complains to the motel, finds out later there’s a dead body between the sheets. Like, literally.”

            “I’m not sure I see your point.”

            “Our motel, Cass.” Dean said, starting the engine and swinging out of the parking spot. “I think the body’s in our room.”

            “Dean. The likelihood of that being the case—it would be an enormous coincidence.”

            “One way to find out.”

 

 

            Dean shoved the door open and stepped into the motel room with the switchblade in hand. The stench was definitely back, drifting into every corner of the room. Damn. Dean knew _Sam_ didn’t have the greatest gastrointestinal stamina, but this would put the kid on the floor and have him begging for a gas mask.

            Dean buried his nose in his sleeve and stalked over to the beds. Yep. Smell was definitely coming from over here. He glanced at Castiel prowling the doorway, tossed the switchblade to himself, caught it and knelt in the mattress. Started in the top right corner and slit it open all the way across. Same with the other corner.

            An explosion of the smell whacked Dean’s senses, making him gag. Fighting down the lump of crusty bile in his throat, he pulled out huge handfuls of bed fluff and—ugh—unused condom, old Cheetos.

            And a little brown bag.

            No bones. No rotting corpse.

            Dean picked up the bag and coughed up a little bit. Source of the smell but definitely not a dead body—not unless the body was a three-week-old fetus.

            “The hell is this?” Dean demanded, holding the thing at arm’s length. Smelled worse than an old diaper.

            “I have no idea.” Castiel said stiffly, stopping just inside the doorway. “It would appear someone was playing a very cruel joke on you, Dean.”

            “What, this is a _prank_?” Dean gagged. “The hell _for_?”

            “For the very same reason you ruined that mattress. You believed the legend.”

            “So you’re saying somebody debunks a legend, because they believe in it.”

            “No. I am saying someone planted the bag because _you_ believed the legend.”

            Dean held the thing up. “This is crap.”

            “It certainly smells like it.”

            “When did you get a sense of humor?” Dean flung the thing out the door and into the bushes ringing the parking lot, flopping down on the foot of the bed. “All right, so the body’s not in here. Doesn’t mean I was wrong.”

            “Actually, that seems to be exactly what it means, Dean.”

            “No.” Dean insisted. “Just ’cause the body in the mattress doesn’t check out, doesn’t mean the secret’s not still floating around.” He got to his feet. “You good at forging signatures, Cass?”

            Castiel nodded slowly. “If the need calls for it, then, yes. I can imitate penmanship.”

            “All right. We’re gonna write a letter.”

  

 


	5. Chapter 5

_February 18 th, 2012_

_Desert Inn, Winchester, Nevada_

 

“You sure he was gonna take the bait?”

            “He seemed overjoyed when he received the letter, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Castiel sounded tired and cranky—twenty-four-hours without coffee would do that to an addict. Dean was sitting with his legs stretched out, back propped on the headboard, sharpening his buoy knife on a pocket whetstone while Castiel sat with his temple on his fist at the small table, watching the clock.

            They’d been sitting around the room since Castiel had delivered the letter to Marcus DeRamey at eleven that morning; the angel had been decked out in Dean’s old suit, masquerading as an emissary from Clinton DeRamey himself, with a letter asking that they meet at Bellagio’s at five that afternoon.

            “What time is it?” Dean asked without looking up.

            “Quarter until four. Five minutes later than when you last asked me.”

            “Just testing you.” Dean snapped the whetstone closed and sheathed the knife, dropping it on the bed. “Fifteen minutes until the meet.”

            “Assuming he will be naïve enough to fall into your plan.” Castiel said skeptically, eyes fixed on the clock.

            “Trust me. Family’s a blind spot, he’ll go.” Dean said, sitting up and rubbing his hands back through his hair.

            Outside, a car door slammed; with a glance at Castiel, Dean got to his feet, went to the window and swept the drapes aside to look.

            Marcus DeRamey’s beater car huffed, coughed out a belt of black smoke and rolled out of the parking lot with its owner hunched over, white-knuckling it, inside.

            “Yahtzee.” Dean let the drapes fall back. “Let’s go, Cass.”

            The angel got to his feet, looking sluggish. “Dean. Why is everything moving so slowly? It feels as though the world is spinning backwards.”

            “Oh, God. Would you get a move on? _Please_.” Dean flung the door open and shrugged into his jacket. “We don’t have a lotta time here, Cass.”

            They drove, keeping about a mile between them and DeRamey even though baby coulda chewed up the distance between them in thirty seconds. They hung back, parking around the corner and watching as Marcus left the garage, crossed the street and headed for the yellow-taped front of Bellagio’s.

            Dean tensed, noticing the security guard standing inside the door. “Cass.” He looked over—front seat was empty. Dean’s eyes widened, swinging back toward the building, same time the angel materialized, gave the guy a good old Vulcan neck pinch, Heaven style, and phased back out.

            Castiel dropped into the front seat. “It’s handled.”

            “Yeah.” Dean looked at him cock-eyed. “Thanks.”

            Marcus headed inside, walked straight past the pillar where the guard was hidden and out of Dean’s line of sight.

            “All right, that’s our cue. Time to get this show on the road.” Dean climbed out, slamming the door with Castiel just behind him. He popped the trunk and pulled out a sawed-off, loaded it with rocksalt rounds and grabbed an extra can of the stuff just in case. They headed inside, using the same back entrance that’d gained them access the day before, Dean keeping an eye out for more guards since Castiel seemed a little preoccupied. Actually, a lot preoccupied. Kept pinching his forehead and squinting.

            “What’s your problem?” Dean muttered as they crossed the lobby, heading for the stairwell.

            “The other angels are trying to contact me.” Castiel said tautly. “They’re impatient, they want to know where I am.”

            Dean pulled open the stairwell door and glanced at Castiel. “Look, man. If you gotta go—”

            “I want to see this case through with you, Dean.” Castiel said it in a way that didn’t leave much wiggling room to argue.

            “All right.” Dean shrugged. “Your funeral.”

            “Let’s hope not.”

            They headed up the stairs, going as quietly as they could, Dean with the sawed off in one hand, can of salt in the other. They were in the stairwell outside the sixth floor when something shattered over their heads, a painful cry splitting the quiet of the deserted—mostly-deserted—motel.

            “Cass!” Dean said, and the angel phased out. Dean ran up the last flight, slammed the door open with his shoulder and headed straight for the yellow-tape door. He barged in just in time to see a flickering shadow come to life, taking on a hollow, blurry-edged form gliding straight toward Marcus and Clinton DeRamey, and Jeremy, the three of them backing toward the window. Jeremy had a huge, bleeding gash above his eye; Clinton was sweeping him back, stepping between him and the spirit that was shifting toward them.

            Castiel appeared out of nowhere; stepped between the humans and the spirit. It hesitated just long enough for Dean to drop the canister and heft the shotgun.

            “Hey!” He bellowed; the ghost flashed a white-eyed look his way, and Dean squeezed the trigger, dispelling the spirit with a burst of rock salt. “Hurts like a bitch, huh?”

            “What the _hell_ was that?” Marcus DeRamey bellowed.

            “That,” Dean said, uncapping the can of salt and creating a wide ring in the middle of the floor. “Was the ghost of Troy Wainwright.” He shook out the can and tossed it aside. “Get in the ring.”

            “What for?” Jeremy demanded.

            “So that vengeful _spirit_ can’t chuck your ass out the window, Waldorf. Now get inside the ring of salt.”

 None of the men moved. “What is this all about?” Clinton demanded, glancing at Marcus. “Why did you ask to meet me here? After six years.”

“I could ask you the same thing! I got your letter.”

“I didn’t write a letter to _you_!”

“That is correct. I penned the letters.” Castiel said. “And I suggest you step into the salt ring. It may be the difference between life and death for all of you.”

“That a threat?” Jeremy snapped.

“Call it a friendly warning.” Dean said, and when the guys stayed standing, looking at him like he was crazy, his patience snapped. “Look, you saw that thing. You know we’re not trying to pull one over on you. So either get inside the salt ring or next time, you get tossed.”

Looking shaky and unsure, Clinton DeRamey was the first to move, stepping into the wide circle and standing there with his fingers flexing awkwardly against his thighs. Marcus followed him like it was a dare, but Jeremy hung back, sweat dewing his upper lip, hands fisting over a file folder in his hands.

“Why’d you bring us here?” He demanded.

“Figured you should all have a little chat.” Dean leaned against the wall, cracking the shotgun open and reloading the rounds he’d spent. “So. What’s the story, Clint?”

“S-Story behind what?” He stammered.

“Yeah, that’s cute. Keep pretending.” Dean snapped the shotgun closed with one hand and both DeRameys flinched. “You got no idea what I’m talking about, huh?” Dean shifted forward, feeling the ridge of the corner digging into his spine. “Troy Wainwright. Disappeared outta this room fourteen years ago? Ring any bells? I’ll give ya hint—he wasn’t _staying_ in this room, but he’s still around.”

Clint stared at him, eyes wide, breathing hard. “I told you to stay out of my hotel. Leave the past where it belongs. For both our sakes.”

“Ah, diggin’ up dirt on ghosts—kinda my job.” Dean said flatly. “And man, the skeletons in this family’s closet—whoo.” He shook his head. “I thought _my_ family had some issues.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Jeremy snapped.

“Yeah?” Dean’s eyes turned slowly onto the kid. “Do you?”

Jeremy sneered. “You’re not a cop. We don’t have to tell you anything.”

Dean let the silence hang on until the kid started looking nervous. Then he pulled a sharp, sinister smile. “Right. I’m just your best hope against that ghost. The one that’s been haunting this hotel for fourteen years. Urban legend, right? Some kinda curse?”

Jeremy looked away.

“Seven people are dead.” Dean said. “Because you two,” He pointed to Marcus and Clint. “Screwed up, and tried to bury your screw-up. So unless you wanna be the next dead bodies at the morgue, you better start talking.”

“He’s bluffing.” Jeremy said. “He’s bluffing! He’s not going to kill us.”

“No. Not him.” Castiel said lowly. “The spirit that is haunting this room.”

“No such thing.” Clinton said with the last spark of bravado in a dying argument.

“Then where did the boy get that wound on his forehead?” Castiel asked.

“You knew. Didn’t you?” Dean demanded. “All this time, you knew this was happening. People were _dying_. And you covered it up.”

Clinton bristled. “I don’t know what you—”

“Dad.” Marcus interrupted abruptly. “That’s enough.” Clinton swung wide, warning eyes on him, but Marcus shook his head. “It’s enough.” He turned to face Dean. “You’re not a cop?”

Dean raised his eyebrows but didn’t answer. Marcus wiped a hand on his brow. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It was just—one thing led to another.”

“Marcus!” Clinton growled.

“I’m done _lying_ for you!” Marcus snapped. He turned back to face Dean, talking fast, words spilling out. “Troy helped build this place. From the ground up. He was my father’s business partner, but he was a greedy, selfish bastard. And he wanted more than his fair share. One thing led to another and they got into a fight.”

“You threw him out the window.” Dean said to Clinton. “And you hid the body before the cops showed up. Right?”

“No.” Marcus said. “ _I_ buried the body.”

“Clinton.” Castiel said suddenly. “What part of your son’s story is a lie?”

Clinton turned around to face him. “Excuse me?”

“I can hear your heartbeat.” Castiel tilted his head to one side. “And just now, when he mentioned burying the body—it accelerated dramatically.”

“I don’t kn—”

“If you say ‘I don’t know’ one more time, man, I swear to God I will load your ass with rocksalt on principle alone.” Dean threatened.

Clinton shuddered slightly. “You don’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“Don’t listen to them.” Jeremy snapped. “It’s like I said. They’re nobodies. They can’t do anything.”

Dean stepped forward and toed the salt line. “Let’s break the ring and find out who’s right.”

“Wait! No, all right, fine.” Clinton blustered. “It wasn’t me who killed Troy. It wasn’t Marcus, either.”

“Mister DeRamey—!” Jeremy lurched forward a step, jaw tightening.

“Jeremy was a bum kid off of the streets.” Clinton refused to look at him. “He used to panhandle outside the hotel while it was being built. I took him under my wing, I suppose, gave him a life. He was into some wrongside business I didn’t know about. But Troy, he…somehow, he found out. It was drugs, he caught Jeremy selling.”

“Shut up! Dammit!” Jeremy howled.

“Lemee guess.” Dean said. “Popeye over here gets hopped up on leafy greens, tosses Troy, and you take the blame so Marcus will bail you out and hide the body.” He frowned. “Explains why the spirit gave you the face-paint, Jeremy.”

Marcus blinked, looking at Clinton. “You—you didn’t kill Troy?”

Clinton pressed his lips together for a few seconds. “I only…said it because I knew you would listen if I did.”

“Manipulating your son’s loyalty.” Dean met Castiel’s eyes. “Hell of strategy.”

“I’ve kept your secret for _fourteen years_!” Marcus exploded. “Lied for you! Because you were my father!”

“And I still am. Nothing has _changed_ , Marcus!”

“This isn’t a matter of protecting the family name! This wasn’t an _accident_ , it was murder! It was _him_ ,” He stabbed a finger at Jeremy. “Murdering Troy! Troy was practically _family_.”

“So is Jeremy.” Clinton said firmly. “He was like a son to me.”

“ _I’m_ your son!”

Clinton scoffed. “Since when?”

“All right, let’s cut the soap opera crap.” Dean butted in. “At least now we know why the ghost’s after young asshats.” He ignored the look Jeremy shot him. “So you killed him for more poison. Cheap shot. I need to know where the body is.”

“Like we’re telling you.” Jeremy muttered.

“Cass, let me shoot him. Please.”

“That would be unadvisable, Dean. He is, after all, still a wellspring of information.” Castiel stepped toward Jeremy. “I know well over three thousand Enochian spells. One of which can conjure a spirit. Tell me—do you think you would be better off facing this ghost with only your own wits to guide you?” Jeremy stared at him, wide-eyed. “I suggest you tell him where the body is. Now.”

“M-Marcus never told us.” Jeremy said quickly.

“He said it was better that way.” Marcus looked wretched and betrayed. “Said it would be safer for the family, the less people knew where Troy was.” He stared at his father. “You used me. For _him_.”

“You’d already walked out on the business of this family. You were dead to me.”

The whiplash kickback to Dean’s own past made his guts feel like they were getting wedged with a crowbar. _If you walk out that door, don’t you ever come back._

“Where is it?” He demanded.

“Buried out in the hills.” Marcus answered softly.

“Gonna have to be more specific than that, chuckles.” Dean said, then paused. “Please tell me you remember where this body is.”

Marcus fixed him with a cold glare. “I buried my father’s friend. I thought my father had _killed_ him. It’s not something you forget.” He swung his gaze onto Clinton and spoke without looking away: “Calico Basin, off of Route One-Fifty-Nine. There’s a rock formation that looks like Stonehenge. Troy’s buried inside.”

Clinton closed his eyes. “We’ll lose everything because of you.”

“Shoulda thought of that before you all took the fall for that kid.” Dean jerked his head at Jeremy. “Good news is, we can banish the ghost. So, no one else has gotta die for your sick— _sick_ , dysfunctional family.”

“The bad news?” Marcus asked.

“Well, your dad’s a dick, you’re a pushover and he’s a total douchebag.” Dean nodded to Jeremy. “And until we take care of the body? Not exactly safe for you to leave the ring of salt.”

“Why’s that?” Jeremy demanded.

“I’m guessing you haven’t been in this room much since you killed Troy?” Dean looked at him and Jeremy shrugged. “Yeah, well, Troy has. His spirit’s been trapped in here going crazy, killing people off every two years. Now you’re in here, and believe me, this guy’s out for blood. Can’t risk moving you out.”

“What? We had this whole _conversation_ to move out!”

“Yeah, well, you’re not going to prison, buddy. Consider yourself lucky.” Dean backed toward the door. “Cass, we gotta find that body.”

“Hey! Wait a second!” Jeremy made a move toward the door and Dean held up a hand, stopping him.

“Time’s up.” Dean glanced around the room. “Best line of defense is on its way out. Try not to get yourself killed.

And he couldn’t say he wasn’t a little satisfied to shut the door in Jeremy’s pompous, whiny face. Sometimes justice really was a dish best served cold.

 

 

Calico Basin was a pretty wide area to search. It was after dark by the time Dean’s bouncing yellow flashlight beam picked up the tumble of rocks off the side of the road. Huh. Really did look like Stonehenge.

He grabbed the shovel out of the Impala and started digging; desert ground, a lot harder then the usual dirt-and-grass number. Dean shucked off his jacket even though it was cold as hell, trading off digging detail with Castiel every half hour until they’d gotten in deep. And finally got to the body, a mostly-rotted, twisted pile of bones.

“All of that pain and anguish,” Castiel observed, standing on the edge of the hole while Dean wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his t-shirt, leaning heavily on the shovel. “The lying, the betrayal. Because of Jeremy’s addiction.”

“Yep.”

“Gambling. Narcotics. Sex. I will never understand human addiction to these imitations of pleasure.”

“What are you talkin’ about, Cass? Everything’s good in moderation, right?”

“I simply don’t see the point. Not when I’ve observed you reaching the same state of emotional satisfaction by listening to your favorite song, or spending quality time with your brother. Cheap pleasures seem to pale in comparison.”

“First rule.” Dean said, nodding to him. “No chick-flick moments.” He hauled himself out of the hole and grabbed the salt. Dusted the bones. Wet them down with copious amount of lighter fluid. Struck a match and glanced at Castiel through the dim glow it made. “Let’s light it up.”

The bones burst into flagrant light, probably the first of it they’d seen in fourteen years. Simple case, Dean thought, watching the bones burn. There was probably a lesson to be learned in here, somewhere. Something about not letting family slip away. Not using the people who cared about you. About not being willing to go to _any_ lengths to protect someone, or to get so invested in something, you’d throw someone out a window for it. Yeah. Those were definitely lessons.

But right now, all Dean could do was stare down into that hole, and remember other bodies he’d dug up. Not always the bodies of the innocent. Sometimes murderers. Rapists. Just—evil. Evil people. He’d watched them burn, put their spirits at rest. Saved a lot of innocent people.

Not this time. This time, the innocent person was the one who was burning, for the second time. And the guilty parties were getting away with it—because Dean couldn’t afford not to burn the body, and without it he had no evidence other than their confessions. And he hadn’t changed Jeremy. Guy still wanted a claim to stake in the hotel, that was why he’d made up the legend about the curse, the reason he’d let the killings go on as long as he had. Couldn’t risk the truth coming to light. And he’d keep fighting it as many times as Dean brought it up again.

So they had no proof. At all. Just a spirit laid to rest, another family torn to shreds and a hotel that’d open back up in a few days, maybe a little emptier but definitely safer. Like nothing had changed.

“Cass.” Dean said, feeling the glow of the fire reflecting off his face.

“Yes, Dean?”

“I gotta start carrying some kinda recorder thing. Get all the confessions on tape.”

“Yes, that would be a good idea.”

They watched the fire in silence for a little while. Then Castiel cleared his throat. “So. Should we go and gamble?”

Dean’s mouth twitched into a tiny smirk that slid right back off. “Nah.” He headed for the Impala. “Bet we could find some cheap-ass bar where they let you throw darts.”

“With all of your earnings, you wouldn’t rather drink in luxury?”

Dean looked across the wide, level horizon of the desert, toward the glaring lights of Las Vegas. Sin City. “Had enough of this town’s luxury.” He said, climbing into the front seat. “Beer. Darts. Drowning our sorrows.”

“Coffee?”

“No, Cass. No more coffee. Ever.”

Castiel’s face fell slightly as Dean headed back for town. After a few minutes of thick silence, he asked, “Shouldn’t we return to Bellagio’s and inform the DeRameys and Jeremy that they can move safely out of the salt ring?”

Dean looked at the fire fading away in the rearview mirror. Just another poor bastard who’d died doing the right thing. And no one was gonna pay for it.

“Let’s let ’em squirm.”

 

 


	6. Epilogue

_February 19 h, 2012_

_Desert Inn, Winchester, Nevada_

 

“I am attempting to adopt a better sense of humor.”

            Dean looked up from the duffle bag, zipping the sawed-off inside as Castiel appeared in the doorway. They’d swept the motel room clean, left twenty bucks with a very confused Alice, and decided to book. Marcus wasn’t back yet, but since there hadn’t been any reports on the news of three guys falling out of a seventh-story window, he figured they were probably still sitting inside that salt ring. Who knew, maybe that’d force the three of them to work out their problems.

            Right now, looked like they had a problem of their own. Castiel had that I’ve-Got-Something-To-Confess look that usually meant Dean’s life was about to turn upside down. Like, your-brother-is-going-to-open-the-last-seal, upside down.

He tucked his handgun into the waistband of his jeans. “Yeah, great. Good for you. I think I saw one for sale in the newspaper last month.”

“No. Dean, you don’t understand.” Castiel said, eyes narrowing. “Uriel was one of the most proficient leads of the garrison. He appealed to his followers with his sense of humor. I realize that I must be more like him.”

“Cass, the guy got his kicks off of making me _torture_ Alistair.” Dean pointed out. Castiel just stared at him. “Man, it’s _gotta_ be funnier in Enochian, ’cause I thought his sense of humor was in the pits.”

“Dean. I don’t think you understand what I am trying to tell you.” Castiel insisted. “I’m not adopting Uriel’s sense of humor. I am attempting something far more human.”

Dean felt it slowly clicking together in his mind. “Oh.” Fury took over. “Oh, c’mon, Cass, you didn’t—!”

“You might call it an…angelic stink-bomb.” Castiel said. “It was Gabriel’s design, and the last of its kind.”

“ _You_ planted that ass-bag in my bed?” Dean demanded.

“You are a very deep sleeper, Dean.”

“C’mon, Cass, why’d you have to use _me_ as your puppet? Y’know, we coulda waited until Sam got back, ganged up on him! Or, hell, there’s gotta be twenty other people in this motel!”

“But none of them would understand what I am trying to do.”

Dean finally stopped and just looked at Castiel. Tried not to see him as an angel, but just this pissed-off, end-of-the-rope general leading an army that didn’t believe in him. Like Sam and their dad. Backs always up against the wall. Maybe angels really _did_ need to get away from it once in a while. Especially Castiel, who knew what it felt like to be—well, mostly—human.

“Well, congratulations on getting the stick out of your ass.” Dean said, slinging the duffle bag off of the bed. “We should do it again sometime, once this whole freaking angelic war is over.”

“That would be unlikely, considering, if this war goes in my favor, Heaven will be under my charge. But it’s a good idea.” Castiel stepped outside and Dean followed him, slamming the motel door shut. “After all, you and Sam are the only true friends I have. And Bobby, of course.”

Dean, opening the trunk, paused and glanced at him. Castiel looked dead serious. “That’s just sad, Cass. What about that Ciel chick?”

“Ciel is a good lieutenant, but I wouldn’t count her as a friend. Subterfuge is not outside of her skill-set, and I know she is wary of me. Especially now that I have the Weapons in my grasp.”

“Can’t trust an angel.” Dean started unpacking the duffle bag, lining the weapons up in their separate niches. He finished in silence, braced his hands on the trunk roof above his head, and leaned over the weapons’ cache. “Listen. Cass. You got any reads on Sam?”

A pause. “No. Nothing. He’s still hidden from me by the inscription on his ribs. And he hasn’t prayed for me, either.”

“Awesome.” Dean slammed the trunk shut.

“Try not to worry, Dean. Your brother is an excellent hunter—one of the best I’ve ever known. And believe me, I’ve seen many. Centuries of them.” He glanced up at the clear, cloud-spotted sky. “I’m sure he’s all right.”

Dean fiddled with his keys. “Doesn’t explain the dreams I keep having, Cass.” He fisted his hand over the keys. “And y’know, what the _hell’s_ with that, anyway? I’m supposed to be the normal one—dreaming about vampires and Hell and all the crap we go through. Not seeing Sam dying every other night.”

Castiel hesitated. “How much do you understand about souls, Dean?”

Dean scoffed. “Apparently, not as much as everyone thinks I should.” Castiel looked away and Dean felt his senses snap on alert. “Why?”

Castiel’s jaw shifted. “When Death asked you to wear his ring…it was not just to teach you a lesson. The ring of a horseman cannot be worn by a human without consequences.” He looked at Dean, and Dean, drawing a blank, gave him a dramatic, confused shrug. “Your soul, Dean. Death needed a piece of your soul as an anchor for Sam’s. A familiar, to bind it back into his body. It was too fragile to manage on its own.”

“Whoa, wait, wait, _wait_. You’re saying a _piece of my soul_ is missing?”

“Yes. It wouldn’t have to be a large piece, just enough to be trapped inside of Death’s ring when he took it back from you.”

“So I’m _soulless_?”

“You would know if you were.” Castiel sounded frustrated. “It’s just a scrap, Dean. Barely enough to alter anything about your personality. A scrap of your soul, placed inside of Sam. But it seems to be enough to root your subconscious to his.”

Dean froze. “So the things I’m seeing. Those are real?”

“I’m sure they are. In Sam’s memories.”

Dean took that blow right into his guts. “What the hell.”

“It’s not a bad thing, Dean. That piece of your soul inside of Sam—it’s still you. It’s the mortar holding his Wall together. You are the best, strongest defense between Sam and his memories. Your soul, inside of him. It’s keeping him sane.”

And Dean wondered if there was ever some way he wouldn’t be trying to protect Sam. In the world. In Hell. Or inside of him, inside his head.

“Well, that’s creepy.” Dean finally remarked, with nothing better to say. Not much you could say when you found out you were missing a piece of your soul, and it was inside your brother.

“Try not to worry, Dean.” Castiel said. “Sam will contact you when he is ready.”

“I dunno, Cass.”

Castiel shifted his shoulders awkwardly inside his trenchcoat. “There’s a case, Dean. On the east coast, in South Carolina. My brothers got word to me; something infecting a neighborhood, driving children mad. It seems like your kind of mission.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Dean took a deep breath and looked at Castiel sideways. “Guess I’m goin’ solo on this one, huh?”

Castiel smiled slightly. “The weekend of shore leave is over, I’m afraid.”

Dean nodded. “Well, at least we cleaned house. And solved a case.” He laughed tautly. “Hell of a weekend.”

“Indeed.” Castiel turned away.

“Hey, Cass.” Dean said quickly. “Thanks.”

Castiel looked back over his shoulder. “I will always do whatever I can to help you and your brother, Dean.” He dipped his head. “I…hope the nightmares fade soon.”

Trenchcoat flapping, he vanished.

“You and me both.” Dean muttered. He slid into the front seat, the amulet bumping against his chest. Dean stopped, one hand on the steering wheel, looking at the necklace in the reflection of the rearview mirror.

A piece of his soul, gone. Inside of Sam. Dean hadn’t even noticed. But maybe that was what had clouded his judgment in Vermilion. Maybe it was harder for him to see cases objectively, when a part of him was fighting a war inside Sam’s head.

And Dean’s phone had been silent all weekend.

Dean punched the steering wheel.

“Sammy, where the _hell_ are you?”

 

* * *

 

 

_"I'm battling monsters, I'm pulling you out of the burning buildings_

_And you say_ _I'll give you anything_

_But you never come through."_ —Richard Siken

 

 


End file.
